my first lover smelled of indiana; cigarettes, dust, and cheap leather. the one after him, kentucky (bourbon and broken horses), and the last, a hint of florida (citrus, salt, and spring break,) and a dash of texas (barbeque, heat). they don’t comment on my hundreds or unshaved legs, only: your skin makes you worth it as they pass the money tenderly. i pack it away beneath broken floor boards and gaze over holes in the walls. they pay, leave, call to the snow outside, pray above for another paycheck. I welcome the next one (new york, lemon, and a bible).

Madison Blair attends Harrison School of the Arts for Creative Writing.